


visions are seldom what they seem

by mundaneanarchy



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundaneanarchy/pseuds/mundaneanarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermann likes Tchaikovsky. Newt likes Hermann.</p>
            </blockquote>





	visions are seldom what they seem

**Author's Note:**

> just some quick fluff to tide me over while i try to bring closure to TMTWB. i love tchaikovsky and i've had the idea of newt and hermann slow-dancing in my head for a few days so i just kind of threw together something sweet and simple just for the fun of it. something innocent and uncomplicated in a world of depravity and complications.

“I don’t even know how I’m still walking and talking and breathing and thinking and everything, man, at least without a total pulmonary embolism. I’m, like, 98% sure that it’s just, like, adrenaline, which leads me to worry about what the aftermath of this high will be like, but the adrenaline, again, is sort of stunting my proactive thinking. C’est la vie, though, I guess, but in a revised way of the phrase, given we sort of just intervened on divine practice, if you can even call it that, but we work with what we have in the end, I suppose.”

Newt seems to be speaking as he thinks, which isn’t anything new, but it most definitely hasn’t grown any less irritating in the last few hours. That limp, though—has that always been there? And the way that he’s clearly leaning more on one side than distributing his weight evenly…that certainly can’t be good. Hermann chooses to ignore this new little fact for the time being, and leave his future self to deal with the implications of this physical manifestation of their freshly branded cosmic connection.

Newt bursts through the doors of the lab and goes directly for his desk that has about a million painfully unorganized drawers. Hermann sighs and leans hard on his cane, watching this chaos unfold with and too exhausted to effectively protest.

“I’ve gotta have booze in here somewhere, I just know that I stored some in here on my first day; optimistic little shit that I was, little ball of manic energy and self-confidence, what a fucking loser…but look where we are now. We won. This little shit finally got something right,” Newt murmurs, somewhat to Hermann but mostly to himself, as he rummages through the travesty of a desk that he calls his own.

Hermann collapses into his own desk chair and closes his eyes, massaging his temples and trying to quell the massive headache he can feel just on the horizon. He focuses on the high tenor of Newt’s voice, using it as a source of stability instead of irritation, for once.

He leans over to his computer and boots the old thing up. He presses a few keys and soft music starts to whir from the beat up speakers.

“Aha! I knew it!” Newt exclaims and emerges victorious with a not insubstantial bottle of aged whiskey. “It’s just the cheap stuff, but who gives even the slightest of a fuck. As if it could do any more damage. All we need to do right now is find a gang of J-Techs and get justifiably blasted out of our minds.” Newt pauses, as if suddenly hit by something indescribable, and stares at Hermann. “Hermann? What are you doing?”

“Trying to relax,” Hermann growls, and pinches the bridge of his nose and focuses on breathing in rhythm to the soft classical music playing behind him. “I’m exhausted.”

“Huh,” Newt says, and falls gracelessly into the chair opposite Hermann. “Y’know what? I didn’t realize until just now, but I’m exhausted, too.”

“Is that so?” Hermann asks mockingly, not caring for a second.

“Yeah,” Newt counters, obviously not picking up on Hermann’s sarcasm, or if he is, he just doesn’t care. “I’m fucking shattered, actually, now that I really think about it.”

“There is an off switch, indeed. Pity it requires a shoddily-made pons helmet and imminent world destruction to activate.”

“Are you gonna start pulling out _jokes_ on me now? How entirely unprofessional. Careful, Dr. Gottlieb, people might start to talk,” Newt teases. Hermann frowns at that. Newt leans back in his chair and watches him with a satiated smirk. “Whatchya listening to?”

“Tchaikovsky,” Hermann groans. “It relaxes me.”

“You’re gonna need to up the decibels a little bit if you wanna relax someone as uptight as yourself.”

“Be assured that if I had not just faced the brink of death not an hour ago, I would be in uproarious laughter over your overwhelming comedic genius.”

“Ouch. Stabbing’s enough, Hermann, no need to twist the knife.” Newt leans over Hermann to turn up the volume a few notches. Hermann’s breath catches at their close proximity and thankfully Newt doesn’t seem to notice. “What’s this, then? The Sleeping Beauty Waltz? Classic. Not what I’d assume, but certainly not a horrible choice.”

“I’m positively elated to receive your approval.”

“Anytime, sweet cheeks,” Newt winks and flashes a grin that could kill. Hermann scowls to hide how frustratingly charmed he is by it.

Hermann closes his eyes and huffs like a petulant child. After a few seconds of unnerving silence, he opens one eye to see Newt patiently holding out one hand toward him.

“What is that?”

“It’s called a hand, Hermann. I know you’re all wrapped up in your numbers and binaries but lucky for the both of us, my doctorate in biology comes in handy to explain the alien customs of human life to you. Usually hands are used to perform acts of manual labor, sometimes as a form of communication or affection; in some cultures holding it out in this particular way is even seen as an invitation to dance.”

“You want to dance? With me? Now?”

“What better time to dance than after the world didn’t end?”

Hermann stands up, grumbling something about how every moment is technically a moment where the world hasn’t ended yet. He glares at Newt’s outstretched hand, still not entirely convinced.

“Come on. You might as well. I’ll even let you lead.”

 _Does he know how to dance outside of that ridiculous thrashing and head-banging_ , Hermann asks himself inwardly.

“Of course I do,” Newt answers, and Hermann’s eyes snap wide open. Newt doesn’t seem to find it strange at all that their means of communication seems to have just transcended basic auditory language. “Don’t look so shocked, Hermann. I’m in your head. You know the answer to any question you could possibly ask of me.”

 _He knows classical_ , Hermann thinks to himself, flummoxed by the instantaneous rate of information flowing through him at once. _Far better than anyone would ever guess. Far better than me, even, perhaps. It’s possible. Anything is possible with him._

“I picked up a thing or two from my mother, even if it did come with abandonment issues and the bipolar gene. A formulaic disaster, but a priceless one nonetheless.”

Hermann chooses at that moment not to bring up the fact that Newt knows more about his mother’s discography than he does of the woman herself. Instead, he takes Newt’s hand and takes a step closer. Newt smiles but doesn’t goad, just threads their fingers together and places a delicate hand on Hermann’s shoulder. Hermann places his other hand on the small of Newt’s back in turn.

They sway to the beat of the song in silence. Newt leans his head on Hermann’s shoulder and Hermann prays that he can’t feel the way his heart races between them. Newt does.

“So, _Sleeping Beauty_?” Newt asks softly.

“I enjoy the play.”

“You filthy liar,” Newt snorts. “You weren’t even trying to fool me that time. It’s your favorite Disney movie and you know it. You are so pretentious.”

“I like it,” Hermann snaps. His tone is gentler when he elaborates, “It’s…elegant.”

“Hey, I’m not knocking it. It’s a good movie. No one said it wasn’t a good movie.” Newt smiles against Hermann’s chest, grateful for the rare moment of amiability. “I like _The Little Mermaid_.”

“Of course you do.”

“Hey. Play nice. Besides, Prince Eric is dreamy. All proper and regal. That’s hot.”

“I preferred Aladdin,” Hermann admits, and blushes immediately after saying it.

“No kidding?” Newt says, lifting his head to look at Hermann and smile. “That’s good. That’s cool. That makes sense for you; Hermann Gottlieb and the scrappy, dashing street rat that everyone underestimates. That’s cute. I see it.”

Neither of them voice the question they’re both thinking: _Who are we actually talking about here?_

Newt buries his face in the crook of Hermann’s jaw. He bites his lip and presses himself fully against Hermann.

 _You smell nice_ , Hermann hears inside his head, but that was certainly not his thought and it wasn’t even his voice. It was higher pitched and not laden with an inept cynicism and it sounded like music.

“Like lilacs and a beautiful catastrophe,” Newt concludes out loud.

“Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

Hermann scoffs and Newt grins against his neck triumphantly. He starts to hum along to the song and it thrums through Hermann’s body.

“ _I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.”_

“Don’t ruin it, Newton.”

“ _I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.”_

“Honestly, Newton.” Hermann pretends to be bothered but Newt doesn’t ignore how his voice has gone light and affectionate upon hearing his singing voice. It’s nothing novel, of course; nothing to brag about. It’s unpracticed and scratchy and slightly off-key but surprisingly endearing nonetheless. Hermann can’t help the way his lips quirk upwards in response.

“ _And I know it’s true, that visions are seldom what they seem._  
 _But if I know you,  
I know what you do_.”

Hermann presses his hand more firmly into Newt’s back and pulls him closer.

_“You love me at once;  
The way you did once upon a dream.”_

Hermann sighs and lets the music flow and fade out around them. He rests his head on the top of Newt’s and continues to sway against him even after the music has long departed and left them waltzing upon unspoken apologies and silent regrets.

 _I think I’m falling in love with you_ , Hermann hears in that familiar voice inside his head once more, and it’s not his thought this time, either, but he’s beginning to think he might just concur.


End file.
